Mind over Mistletoe
by c1araoswa1d
Summary: Tumblr Whouffle Prompt: Could you write something during Christmas, where Twelve and Clara get stuck under an alien or technologic kind of mistletoe that doesn't let people move away until they kissed?


"Why can't they ever just name a planet something simple, like _Bob_?" Clara asked as they stepped out of the Tardis, straightening the spaghetti straps on her long red dress before shifting out of the Doctor's way to glance up at him in his tuxedo with his frown as she shrugged, "This is worse than trying to get through a science lecture on the human anatomy."

He was standing still, perplexed look dropping his brow as he stared down at her a moment before repeating, "Clesiafixortia, what's so difficult about that?" He gestured at her, "_English_ teacher, you should be good with words and pronunciation."

Releasing a small sigh, she turned and began walking away from him with a simple, "So, Christmas party on Clesifixarotia."

"Clesiafixortia," he interjected roughly.

"Part of the heart, or leg?" Clara teased.

"Neither," he spat in frustration, "It's named after its original settlers, the Clesiafixorians – great race of psychic beings who'd have locked you out of it if they'd known how much their name _offended_ your tongue."

Giggling lightly, Clara paused so he could shift to her side and she looped her arm through his, smiling up at the tiniest of smirks he offered. She enjoyed the simpler moments, before – _she knew_ – the inevitable destruction that would interrupt their outing, and she turned away to look down the elegant hallway before them as they continued to walk, listening as the Doctor rambled on about the planet.

"They're not known for being intrusive into the mind, unless in situations of interrogation, which rarely come up because how do you fight an enemy that could potentially already know your next move," he explained, voice dropping to a whisper as they rounded a corner and moved towards the grand staircase that lead into the ballroom.

Clara smiled brightly, seeing all of the other guests swinging their partners around in a lively dance and she waited, hoping this Doctor would choose to dance with her, but he remained on the sidelines, guiding her through tables and patrons. With a sigh, she offered, "You'd think, with the ability to read minds, they should have conquered the galaxy."

Stopping her, he bent slightly and gently replied, "That's what's fascinating about them. Maybe it's a counter balance, the karma of the universe – they would rather use their abilities for peace, _for love_, than for domination or control."

"Could use a bit of their abilities," Clara muttered.

She could feel the Doctor's eyes on her as she turned to look at the dancers, now slowing to a stop as the music concluded and she knew what he was questioning: just what would she do with psychic abilities. Mostly, she thought to herself, make the students more willing to pay attention in class and do their homework, but partly, she admitted to _only_ herself, she might take a peek into the two thousand year old alien standing at her side.

"We should have a dance, Doctor?" Clara prompted as she freed her arm from his so she could clap for those now bowing to their partners on the dance floor.

And no sooner had the words escaped her, than the Doctor had begun walking swiftly away.

Clara called after him as she rushed to catch up, seeing the small devilish grin he gave, tip of his tongue clenched between his teeth as his eyebrows rose. She smiled back, laughing just a bit at how ridiculous he looked, and once they'd moved through a set of doors behind the stage on which musicians were starting up another moderately placed tune, he stopped and planted his hands on his waist.

"Sorry, was just feeling slightly claustrophobic," he told her, one hand coming up to point back at the door with a wag of a finger.

Nodding slowly, Clara assured, "Then we'll stay here for a bit, maybe stick to the back when we head in – seemed to be less people, and I think there was a bar. Could get you some cold water to drink, should help…" her words trailed as she spotted the flower hanging from the ceiling with a huff of a laugh. "Mistletoe," she breathed, walking towards it.

Behind her the Doctor let out a noise of confusion and then a grunt that sounded like her name, taking a leap towards her and catching her just as she came to stand underneath it. "Oh no," the Doctor stated, wincing as he stood in front of her, his hand latched onto her elbow.

Clara smiled, "What _oh no_, Doctor?"

"Well," he told her, head rolling slightly, "You had to look at it, of course you had to look at it. And not from a distance, never observe at a distance which, granted, I'd be guilty of myself, but you, Clara…"

"Doctor," she spat. Then she glanced down and told him quietly, "You can let me go now."

"I can't let you go, Clara," he replied, looking to his right.

She laughed, nervously, and assured, "No, it's alright, you can let me go."

The Doctor's eyes went wide as he turned back and hissed, "It's not that I don't want to let you go, Clara, it's that I literally cannot let you go. I'm trying, but we're caught in its field."

"_What's_ field?" Clara questioned, looking up when the Doctor did before asking, "The mistletoe?"

"It's an equivalent, but it's…" he winced before groaning, "It projects a sort of truth field and…" his head toggled slightly before he admitted, "It captures a thought and doesn't release its hold until you release your thought."

"What thought?" Clara whispered.

"_Well_," he barked, "What were you thinking when you stepped up to stare at it all wide-eyed and unknowing?"

Cheeks going red, Clara demanded, "_Well_… what were _you_ thinking?"

They stared at one another until the Doctor finally grunted, "Let's just admit we were both thinking of mistletoe, and let's both just accept we were both thinking – because of an _archaic_ human tradition associated with mistletoes – about kissing."

"Ok," Clara said simply with a nod.

"One of us is thinking about kissing the other, it's why we're both in this hold," the Doctor informed her quietly, nodding his head as he looked around and then up at the mistletoe – anywhere not Clara's round face, or those large eyes, or the excess of cleavage her dress exposed.

"Do you want to kiss me?" She shot.

"No!" He frowned and hissed back, "Do you want to kiss me?"

"No."

With a long sigh, the Doctor told her plainly, "Well then, one of us is obviously lying."

"I'm not lying," Clara answered automatically.

"Well, neither am I," the Doctor claimed.

They avoided each other's eyes, each attempting their best with tiny grunts of effort, to pull away from the other until Clara finally groaned and muttered, "Maybe we should then."

"Should what?" The Doctor asked in terror.

Eyes rolling, Clara answered, "Just kiss, just get it over with."

"Kiss you?" He pointed with the finger still rounding her elbow.

"Who else are you going to kiss?" Clara mocked.

They took a breath together and the Doctor muttered, "Count of three."

"Don't sound so disappointed," she groaned in response.

"Clara," he sighed, eyes closing a moment before he looked to her in frustration. She looked away and then glanced back with a small nod and he inched forward, "One," he stated, watching her lick her lips, "Are you getting prepared for…"

Her mouth fell open and she scoffed, "Well, I'm not about to hear you mouth off for the next ten minutes about how dry my lips were, scratching against your special delicate Gallifreyan…"

The Doctor shifted forward to press his lips into hers and his eyebrows lifted when she released the quietest of squeaks in response. He hadn't been sure what to expect – was awaiting the scathing burn of her against him, but instead it was warm like a new sun after a cold night. He tilted his head slightly and opened himself to her as his hand drifted down her arm to collect hers, fingers mingling as their tongues did.

Clara stepped into him, lightheaded and unexpectedly pleased as he deepened the kiss and his other hand fell atop her waist before circling to the small of her back to press her into him. She stepped on tip toe, moaning as she circled his tongue with her own, and then they pushed off one another, each slamming into the opposite wall of the hallway with a set of exasperated breaths.

"You said we could get water," the Doctor stated pointedly, the hand resting against his chest shakily moving to gesture at her and then at the doors further down the hall that would let them back into the ballroom on the other side of the stage. "Could use water. Ice. _Liquid_. Anything."

Nodding slowly, Clara straightened and she touched a finger to her own chest, thumping heavily, and she passed one last curious glance at the flower that hung from the ceiling between the bathroom entrances before following the Doctor back. They managed to spend an hour looking at anyone but one another before the Doctor nodded his head back towards the grand staircase and when Clara stood at his side at the foot, he looked to the amused smirk on her face as he awkwardly offered his arm.

"I'm sorry about before," he told her quietly as they began to walk.

"I'm not," she replied coyly, tilting her head before glancing sideways at him to tell him, "Since you weren't doing much talking, I struck up a few conversations with the Clesiafixorians. Nice people – _you were right_ – and so willing to divulge information about their home planet's flora, among other things."

The Doctor eyed her as they reached the top of the steps and turned towards the hallway that lead to the Tardis, asking her quietly, "And what did you find?"

She lifted her fingers to the handle, curling them around it as her lips lifted again and she sighed, "The not-mistletoe? Our mistletoe is a genetic relative, missing the psychic components because it was cross bred with a similar plant on Earth." She shrugged, "Apparently they use it in therapy because it's capable of forming a psychic bond between two beings – a bond that is formed over an unspoken shared thought, not individual ones – and it only releases when that thought has been, in some way, _verbalized_."

He cocked his head and grinned, telling her, "You realize what you're _not_ admitting."

Opening the door, Clara replied, "Same thing _you_ aren't," before stepping inside, smug grin on her lips.


End file.
